Bay State's rusted shield,

Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree

on our banner's tattered field. Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round the board, Answering England's royal missive with a firm, THUS SAITH THE LORD!" Rise again for home and freedom ! — set the battle in array! What the fathers did of old time we their sons must do to-day.

WASHINGTON, IN THE 12TH MONTH
OF 1845.

WITH a cold and wintry noon-light, On its roofs and steeples shed, Shadows weaving with the sunlight From the gray sky overhead, Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built town outspread.

Through this broad street, restless ever,
Ebbs and flows a human tide,
Wave on wave a living river;

Wealth and fashion side by side; Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.

Underneath yon dome, whose coping
Springs above them, vast and tall,
Grave men in the dust are groping

For the largess, base and small, Which the hand of Power is scattering,

crumbs which from its table fall.

Base of heart! They vilely barter Honor's wealth for party's place : Step by step on Freedom's charter Leaving footprints of disgrace; For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great hope of their race.

Yet, where festal lamps are throwing Glory round the dancer's hair, Gold-tressed, like an angel's, flowing Backward on the sunset air; And the low quick pulse of music beats its measure sweet and rare :

There to-night shall woman's glances, Star-like, welcome give to them, Fawning fools with shy advances Seek to touch their garments' hem, With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God and Truth condemn

Pitying God! Is that a WOMAN

On whose wrist the shackles clash ? Is that shriek she utters human,

Underneath the stinging lash? Are they MEN whose eyes of madness from that sad procession flash?

Still the dance goes gayly onward!
What is it to Wealth and Pride
That without the stars are looking

On a scene which earth should hide? That the SLAVE-SHIP lies in waiting, rocking on Potomac's tide!

Vainly to that mean Ambition
Which, upon a rival's fall,
Winds above its old condition,
With a reptile's slimy crawl,

Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in anguish call.

Vainly to the child of Fashion,
Giving to ideal woe

Graceful luxury of compassion,

Shall the stricken mourner go; Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beau

tiful the hollow show!

Nay, my words are all too sweeping :
In this crowded human mart,
Feeling is not dead, but sleeping;

Man's strong will and woman's heart, In the coming strife for Freedom, yet

shall bear their generous part.

And from yonder sunny valleys,
Southward in the distance lost,
Freedom yet shall summon allies

Worthier than the North can boast, With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at severer cost.

Now, the soul alone is willing:

Faint the heart and weak the knee;

And as yet no lip is thrilling

69

With the mighty words, "BE FREE!" Tarrieth long the land's Good Angel, but his advent is to be!

Meanwhile, turning from the revel
To the prison-cell my sight,
For intenser hate of evil,

For a keener sense of right, Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee, City of the Slaves, to-night!

"To thy duty now and ever!

Dream no more of rest or stay; Give to Freedom's great endeavor All thou art and hast to-day": Thus, above the city's murmur, saith a Voice, or seems to say.

Ye with heart and vision gifted To discern and love the right, Whose worn faces have been lifted To the slowly-growing light, Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk of night!

Ye who through long years of trial Still have held your purpose fast, While a lengthening shade the dial From the westering sunshine cast, And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of the last!

O my brothers! O my sisters !
Would to God that ye were near,
Gazing with me down the vistas

Of a sorrow strange and drear; Would to God that ye were listeners to the Voice I seem to hear!

With the storm above us driving,

With the false earth mined below, Who shall marvel if thus striving We have counted friend as foe; Unto one another giving in the darkness blow for blow.

Well it may be that our natures

Have grown sterner and more hard, And the freshness of their features

Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred, And their harmonies of feeling overtasked and rudely jarred.

Be it so.
It should not swerve us
From a purpose true and brave;

But who are they, who, cowering, wait
Within the shattered fortress gate?
Dark tillers of Virginia's soil,
Classed with the battle's common spoil,
With household stuffs, and fowl, and
swine,

With Indian weed and planters' wine,
With stolen beeves, and foraged corn,
Are they not men, Virginian born?

O, veil your faces, young and brave!
Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave!
Sons of the Northland, ye who set
Stout hearts against the bayonet,
And pressed with steady footfall near
The moated battery's blazing tier,
Turn your scarred faces from the sight,
Let shame do homage to the right!

Lo! threescore years have passed; and where

The Gallic timbrel stirred the air,
With Northern drum-roll, and the clear,
Wild horn-blow of the mountaineer,
While Britain grounded on that plain
The arms she might not lift again,
As abject as in that old day
The slave still toils his life away.

O, fields still green and fresh in story,
Old days of pride, old names of glory,
Old marvels of the tongue and pen,
Old thoughts which stirred the hearts
of men,

Ye spared the wrong; and over all
Behold the avenging shadow fall!
Your world-wide honor stained with
shame,

Your freedom's self a hollow name!

And hence my pen unfettered moves
In freedom which the heart approves,
The negligence which friendship loves.
And wilt thou prize my poor gift less
For simple air and rustic dress,
And sign of haste and carelessness?

O, more than specious counterfeit
Of sentiment or studied wit,
A heart like thine should value it.
Yet half I fear my gift will be
Unto thy book, if not to thee,
Of more than doubtful courtesy.

A banished name from fashion's sphere,
A lay unheard of Beauty's ear,
Forbid, disowned, what do they

here?

From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing,
For blessing on the hand of healing,

Better than Glory's pomp will be
That green and blessed spot to me,
A palm-shade in Eternity!-

Something of Time which may invite
The purified and spiritual sight
To rest on with a calm delight.

And when the summer winds shall sweep

With their light wings my place of sleep, And mosses round my headstone creep,